enjoy the silence
by Nomen Ist Omen
Summary: He's slipped away, and there's nothing you can do. Haruhi-centric, Hikaru/Haruhi. Angst.


_**enjoy the silence **_

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

**Warnings**: pretentious gibberish, off-putting imagery, bracket abuse. Do not read if the abundant use of figurative language does not tickle your fancies. Some things might strike you as OOC. There's smut here too – it's not very explicit or sexy (or whatever you want your pron to be), but er, I'd say the ficlet earns its rating. That's all.

Criticism welcome, but don't flame me for things that I clearly warned you about.

This fic - I think - opens itself up to quite a few interpretations. It can be seen as a companion piece to the other Hikaru/Haruhi fic I wrote eons ago, but then again, this a bit different in flavour.

I'd like to hear your thoughts?

I do wonder why I can't write fluff ):

...

[He's slipped away, and there's nothing you can do]

The clock toils one, as Haruhi falls down the bridge _(out of the cuckoo's nest, and - like a summer's rain - patters down on the floor, landing and breaking like porcelain into tiny splinters of fastly fading water drops)_. And, as she falls and falls - feeling the wind sift through her hair and clothes – Haruhi's mind is pricked with the realisation that there'll be no one to catch her this time.

The carriage has turned into a pumpkin, and there's nothing she can do.

[It's not your fault that he's gone. We all screw up from time to time]

"Here – take this. It'll warm you up," Kyouya tells her as she reaches for the towel. Its material is soft against her skin, and Haruhi sighs – the act of brushing the wetness off her skin is like cleansing sins _(standing in the water, and hoping that the purity of it will wash away the dirt that you've acclaimed throughout your life)_.

While she's still wiping at her skin, Haruhi hears the tocking of the grandfather going _tong tong tong_. Her gaze turns to it, and she looks at it – and then again doesn't _(her eyes are only mirrors to her soul – broken, and anyone who dare touch them only ends up cutting up their skin on the sharp edges of the glass)._

[I'll heal you from your pain, if you only let me]

It rains in buckets on the day of her graduation party. _How appropriate,_ it races through her mind, and a chill spread over her entire body as she remembers cool water and falling, falling, falling.

Falling and drowning. Drowning and dying without the hope of ever seeing a glimpse of the dying sunset _(that spreads orange and yellow over the world) _ever again.

Hikaru places a hand on her shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

Her face cracks into a smile (_masks are put on for the audience to believe you're happy and grinning when, deep down, you just want to cry_).

And then, there's thunder and Haruhi – as if charged by a battery – springs into his arms, curling her thin arms around his neck. She feels him shudder, and there's a gasp; his breath – so hot – ghosts against her cheek. And, as the shuddering arms around her waist indicate, he's nervous.

She looks at him, and sees. For the first, Haruhi sees that this isn't just one of the twins anymore, but Hikaru _(no longer the two white eggs, but just one – hatched out – and sprouted into a beautiful, beautiful flower)._

She kisses him – hard. It's wet, and it sends waves of electric currents crawling up her spine _(she's been set aflame, but can't be cooled down because once a fire has started, it can't be put out)._

He's hot and hard inside of her, moving gently at first – his whole body's warmth encompasses her like a blanket, and it's as scary as it's thrilling. Because, as she brushes the sweat-soaked hair plastered on his forehead away, Haruhi realises that this – this smell of cologne _(or is it aftershave?)_, the sound of his panting and grunting, and the feeling of his body_ (his penis inside of her, going in and out and each time, filling her)_ still leaves her cold. And it hurts – burning pain that makes her gnash her teeth a bit, close her eyes and sink her fingernails a bit deeper into his skin.

_I don't want to hurt you_, he whispers _(I want to love you, bury myself into you, be with you forever and forever – just don't push me away, don't ever push me away - is what his soul is telling her). _

She fuels him on _(thrashes that whip against the horse and sets it in motion)_, and he then moves quicker, driving into her with frantic thrusts.

Burying his face into her soft neck, he lets out a chorus of inaudibly uttered expressions that sounds suspiciously like "_so good_" and "_I love you, Haruhi"_.

She should feel complete – like the pot that has found its lid – but Haruhi has never felt emptier before.

[You are breaking him too]

It's Kaoru who approaches her a few months later, after - as Haruhi guesses – observing her little affair with Hikaru from the shadows (_always lurking, always there – never leaving). _

"You shouldn't play this cat and mouse game with him."

Haruhi doesn't say anything, not even offering a nod of acknowledgement, and only glares at the boy (_man?)_ who's the replica of her on and off lover. Only that he's different: his eyes don't harbour the same emotion, and when he looks her it isn't like falling, falling, falling.

_(Hikaru's all fire and frantically whispered expressions in the heat of the night, always holding her close – too close. Kaoru would be the quiet one, loving her less passionately and yet he'd take possession of her completely – in a way, Hikaru never could because, unlike him, Kaoru sees and understands everything). _

"He's really in love with you. And if you'd give him a chance, he'd make you happy. Or die trying."

Haruhi shakes her head, a feeling like bitterness lodged in her throat – only that she feels like laughing and laughing until her insides drop out – because it's all so hysterically funny really. Hysterical in the way only life can be, and the famous saying "life's a piece of shit when you look at it" has never rang truer.

It's not worth dying for the sake of love.

[This isn't child's play. It's wrong and you – we both – know it]

"Haruhi-chan is not happy," Hunny tells her straight in the face while Hikaru _(her husband now)_ talks with the guests and she - for paradoxical reasons - is alone with this man stuck in a child's body _(youth preserved like that damnable portrait Dorian Gray fell prey to)._

"And because Haruhi-chan is not happy, she shouldn't be doing this."

Happiness is nothing. And Haruhi only nods, but it's not like this admittance will make her change her mind.

For her, the decision was made a long time ago.

[Playing pretend doesn't mean you're really happy, does it?]

A warm body curls itself around her feet, as Haruhi _(no longer the maiden, as the soft touches of girlhood have left her and given way to womanhood)_ saunters about the place, guiding her guests through the villa and telling them about portraits while the sound of affected laughter fills the house.

All the time, the child _(hair as red and fiery as her father's and uncle's, and only the brown of her eyes showing the resemblance she bears to the woman whom she calls "Mummy") _clings on to her. But Haruhi doesn't mind it, continuing to play the role of the perfect mother, wife and host.

She drowns in the sound, the noise making her nearly forget the silence of being deep under the sea. And indeed, if she closes her eyes for a second and takes in all the hum and dum of it all, she can nearly pretend that this whole theatre is just a dream, which she'll wake up from.

_(But, as Sleeping Beauty opened her eyes and expected to see her true love, she only saw the white skull of Death and - all around her - everything had fallen to dust ...) _

The door rings. Haruhi turns to it, and leaves the child – which she still can't call hers – under the supervision of her guests. It's Mori whom she sees.

Mori, who's always been quiet and kind. And Haruhi senses that he can see right through her little game, and that makes her afraid.

No one likes to have their charade of delusions unearthed, after all.

"At least when you're with me, don't smile. Because it's faker than fake," he whispers into her ear and Haruhi shudders, suddenly feeling like she's been tossed down the bridge again and is falling, falling -

But a clatter of dishes – _the_ daughter's work – brings her back on to the surface. Haruhi is glad, deeply grateful that she doesn't have to reply yet again.

Because, as long as she's doll-like silent, it doesn't matter because silence is golden.

As long as everything remains buried inside - _deep, deep_ - it doesn't matter at all.

--


End file.
